Hester(47)

“Surely others must have guessed the writer is you.”

“The editor made so many changes I cannot rightly call the story my own,” he says. Until this moment he’s seemed confident and self-possessed. “Anyway, the Ladies’ Magazine isn’t widely read outside of Boston,” he says. “You’re the first to ask me about it.”

“I see.”

“I’ll tell you another secret.” He looks up at the sky. “I wrote a novel and published it anonymously.”

A novel is a remarkable thing, I want to say.

“A love story,” he goes on. “It’s an awful, sophomoric book and as soon as I saw it in print, I was ashamed. But it was already done and paid for, and when the Ladies’ Magazine editor praised it in a review, I sent her four stories right away. She took two and encouraged me to send the other to a Mr. Goodrich in Boston. I sent them last month—and added that strange bit about the old married couple.”

Nat makes a fist.

“Yesterday I had a letter from Goodrich saying he doesn’t want them. He wants stories for ladies and children instead.”

His face is open and vulnerable, etched with a pain that looks much like the desire I’ve seen on Edward’s face.

“Mrs. Gamble, will you tell me in complete honesty: What kinds of stories do you think ladies want to read?”

“I can only speak for myself.” I choose my words carefully, for I want to help him as he has helped me. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s listening. “I like stories about adventure and history such as yours. But I also want to read about a man’s character, as well as his penchant for romance. I want to know how to recognize a good man from a bad one.” I pause and ask the question gently. “Do you have family stories you might draw upon?”

His eyes fly open and he looks at me with a fierceness that makes it impossible to look away.

“What have you heard?”

“I’ve heard about the judge and the witch trials,” I admit.

His face pinches, and in a flash he understands.

“I thought you might, now that you’re working at Felicity Adams’s shop.”

I have the urge to tell him about Isobel Gowdie and my own secrets, just to soothe him. But I hold my tongue.

“I feel the curse of his cruelty on me every day,” Nat says. “Whatever was passed down I have to cast off—if not by blood, then by ink and words.” He looks hard at me. “That’s what I keep trying to write—some salvation for myself and my family.”

“It was a long time ago,” I say.

“Their families suffered because of mine.”

“They shouldn’t blame you.”

“And why not?” he asks. “His ancestor’s blood runs in my veins.”

“Bad men can do good things, and good men can do bad things. Perhaps your grandsire was both good and bad,” I offer.

He jumps to his feet, shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, and paces in front of me.

“I know man’s nature better than most because I see what others refuse to,” he says. “The darkness hidden in men’s hearts, secrets we keep even from ourselves. What’s good and bad both—that’s what I’m trying to put in my stories.”

Gulls caw overhead as if to warn me that his world of enchantments is dangerous. Selkies and kelpies and faeries entertain themselves on human foibles and on our impossible desires for love and safety, and yet we don’t stop seeking these things.

“Ladies would rather read about love, I think,” I tell him. “How to recognize a true man, how to choose well.”

“Love rarely trumps the darkness in men’s souls.” His words are more red than gold. “Secrets inside of secrets; that’s what I want to write. Churchgoing Devil worshippers who meet under the moon. Family shame passed down through generations. Salem ladies who walk about town as if they or their ancestors never sinned,” he goes on. “Men who judge others harshly while hiding their own terrible deeds.”

He squats in front of me and grips my hand. His fingers aren’t gentle, but I don’t pull away.

“I need to write these stories so that I can be free of the ruin my forefathers brought on our name. So that one day I can leave it all behind.”

“Would you leave Salem?”

“Dear God, I hope I will.”

I keep my voice steady. “Where would you go?”

“I spent my boyhood in Maine, where the water is icy and bracing.” He shakes his head as if he’s just come out of the cold water. “I’m free there. I can breathe the air and walk the woods without fear or judgment. I’ll be going soon—Uncle William is having my first gentleman’s coat made and we’ll go north when it’s finished.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Only for a short journey—but one day I’ll leave for good.”

He picks up the glove I put aside and uses his finger to trace a pattern of vines round and round until he’s at the center of the palm.

“I saw you go into the Silas house by the kitchen door,” he says.

I don’t say a word. He takes my hand and places the glove on it, pulling the fabric down over one finger at a time.

“The Silas family.” This is my pinky finger. “The Good family. The Martins. The Easty family.” It’s almost as if I’m looking at someone else’s hand as he tugs the glove snug over one finger at a time. “Felicity Adams and her sister. They’re all descended from the accused or the accusers. From women hanged or those who sent them to death.”